“Oh, no,” she answered; “only our old drawing teacher at the Normal College.” At that he was happy again. She wanted him to lead her straight to his own picture at once. By and by they had reached it. The subject was “The Song of Deborah.” The prophetess was represented as a woman of about fifty years of age, tall, stalwart, imperious-looking, with iron-gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a head of stern and majestic beauty. Christine thought the coloring was superb, and, “Where did you ever find such a wonderful face?” she asked. “It is a face to make you afraid, it's so strong, so proud; and yet it is a face that you could not help loving; there is something so good about it. Oh, I like it the best of all the pictures here.” Elias felt that he had not worked in vain.
There was a great crush of people, and the air was close and hot, and the few seats where one might rest one's self were all occupied; so presently Elias asked whether she wasn't tired, and she confessed that she was—a little; and they left the building.
“Now,” said he, “it's still early, and I for one am ravenously hungry.”
“Oh, are you? That's too bad,” was her guileless response. “But at home I shall be able to give you”—timidly—“some—some cold turkey.”
“No,” he said, “I shan't put you to that trouble. Let's go to a restaurant.”
And he led her to Delmonico's.
There, the momentous question, what they had better order, occasioned much grave debate, and resulted finally in the selection of a sweet-bread garnished by green peas. Elias thought that Beaune would be the wine best adapted to moistening a sweet-bread, and accordingly Beaune was brought, as Christine remarked curiously, “in a little basket.” She applied herself to the edibles with undisguised relish; but all at once, pausing and looking reproachfully at Elias, she exclaimed, “Why, you said you were ravenously hungry, and now you're not eating a thing!” Indeed, she spoke the truth. His knife and fork lay unemployed beside his plate; and he was doing nothing but gaze at her with fond, caressing eyes.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said, and began to eat and drink.
They chatted busily during the repast—about the people who came and went, about the marvelous toilets of some of the ladies, about the decorations of the restaurant, about the haughty mien and supercilious manner of the French gentleman in evening dress who served them, about the view of electric-lighted Madison Square that they got through the window at which they were established—about a thousand trifles. Afterward Elias preserved but a very dim remembrance of the words that they had spoken. He preserved a very vivid one of Christine's appearance—of how her eyes had glowed beneath her red bonnet, of how the rose he had given her had shone like a spot of flame in her bosom—and of the bliss that he had experienced in sitting opposite her, and watching the varying expressions of her face, hearkening to the varying modulations of her voice, and realizing that she was trusting herself entirely to his protection.
Again by and by he had the privilege of helping her on with her circular, and of buttoning her glove. They got into a street car to go up town. The first half of that journey Elias found delightful. They had to sit very close together, to make room for other passengers; and all the while Elias was conscious of the touch of her shoulder upon his arm. But, as he saw the end drawing near, and knew that the moment was not far off when he would have to leave her, his spirits began to sink. Why could not the distance be doubled, trebled? What possessed the driver to race his horses so? Surely, street car had never covered its tracks at such reckless speed before. He rang her door-bell for her, and tried to harden himself to the thought that in another minute he would have to say good-by.